


Acting In

by Anonymous_ID



Series: Bad!Sam [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bad Decisions, Doctor/Patient, Fondling, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Therapist Sam Winchester, Underage Sex, improper use of office supplies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: Based on an SPN Kink Meme prompt: Jensen's parents have sent him to therapy concerned about his interest in boys, rather than girls. Jared is supposed to help Jensen figure out that he's not gay, that's what Jensen's parents are hoping for. Jensen's not really sure what he is. He likes looking at naked women online but he can't deny that when Ty stuck his tongue down his throat and felt him up that he'd gotten hard.Jared suggests a simple test. He has Jensen take off his shirt and then plays with his nipples. If he gets off, then its a sure bet he's at least bi. Jensen gets off so spectacularly that he almost passes out. Jared is so turned on that he can't wait for the kid's next appointment.I have replaces 'Jensen' and 'Jared' with Dean and Sam, but otherwise stuck pretty close to the prompt, so read the tags carefully.  The non-con is due more to Dean's age (unspecified teenager) than anything explicit, but Sam is still in a position of power so this is potentially TRIGGERING.  I have put the serious porn in chapter 2, so you have no excuse for reading something you don't like!





	1. acting

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this twice 'cause it is important: The non-con is due more to Dean's age (unspecified teenager) than anything explicit, but Sam is still in a position of power so this is potentially TRIGGERING. I have put the serious porn in chapter 2, so you have no excuse for reading something you don't like! 
> 
> "Acting In": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acting_in

At Sam’s job—Sam’s _real_ job, as the lone social worker in a boutique psychiatric practice, the job that required his Stanford degrees, the one that pays for his Lexus and Jess’s blow-outs—there are four secretaries to handle the scheduling.  All the paperwork is delivered in discreet buff envelopes embossed with the practice’s carefully branded logo.  The San Mateo Counseling Project, on the other hand, is pro bono: Cas schedules people when he can find volunteers to see them, and client files end up in ragged, recycled manila folders whose label tabs are palimpsests of partially erased names.  Sam squints at the one stuffed in his mailbox; he can barely read the client's name. 

“Just _holding_ this feels like a HIPPA violation,” he informs Castiel.

 Cas shrugs. “Welcome to Wonderland.  Clients come and go so quickly here!”

“I’m serious.”

“ _I’m_ serious.  I can buy new file-folders, or I can keep the lights on.  Can’t do both.”

Sam sighs.  It’s true: only about a third of their ‘clientele’ ever come back for even one follow-up appointment. The others?  Overdose, psych ward, back across the border.  Lots of ways to get lost if you slip through the safety net in southern California.   

“Cheer up,” Cas says, reaching over to glance at the name on Sam’s latest file.  “Dean Smith. It’s an intake—twenty minutes, tops, and his mom scheduled it.”

“His mom?”  Sam flips open the folder, scans for the client birthdate, does the math.  A teenager, just barely.  The Counseling Project sees a fair number of teens, some of them even younger than this kid, Dean, but most of them are referred by the juvenile courts or parole officers.  The fact that this Dean has a family member who cares enough to track down an appointment at the one free mental health clinic in town—well, that is something to be cheerful about, right?  But Sam’s been volunteering his time here once a week for three years:  he knows better than to get his hopes up.  Dean and his mother might never show up.

***

Against all odds, they do show up.  And how.  The mother has practically worked herself into hysterics before she makes it through the door.   Sam can hear the wailing and sobbing right through the thin partition that separates his cubicle from the makeshift waiting room.  He hears Castiel offering tissues, a cup of water.  By the time Sam has finished jotting down notes from his last client (whose mental health would improve significantly if he would stop huffing illegal Mexican paint thinner), things seem to have settled down.  It’s not for nothing that all the volunteers call Castiel an angel: in addition to doing all the scheduling and manning the office phone, he has an almost preternatural ability calm the most overwrought clients.

Sam undoes Cas’s hard work simply by walking into the waiting room.  The woman sees Sam a moment after he sees her, and the waterworks start all over again.  Her son, meanwhile, is hunched into one of the cheap waiting room chairs, all but hiding behind an old copy of _National Geographic_.  Castiel’s patience is clearly worn thin: he escorts the woman to the cubicle door with unseemly haste and promptly hands over a box of tissues, a paper cup of water, and, as an afterthought, the teenage boy who had been trying to disappear into the woodwork.

“Please come in, Ms….Smith?”  Sam sneaks a look at the file he’d left on his desk.  Sam volunteers four hours a week; there’s never enough time actually _read_ patient histories.

“Mrs.”  The woman corrects between sniffles.  “Dean comes from a good home, a good, Christian home.”

“Of course, naturally,” Sam says, immediately.  He keep casts a glance at the boy and catches an eye-roll.  The kid looks sullen, but not particularly disheveled.  He’s not high, no visible gang tattoos.  Jeans and a button-down shirt; too warm for the summer weather, but Sam judges the slender frame is just a teenager growing into his muscle, not an eating disorder.  Unless he's hiding track marks under those sleeves, Dean Smith looks like the student most likely to advance to middle management.

“Hello, Dean.  I’m Doctor Winchester,” Sam introduces himself.  The mother might have gotten most of the clinic’s attention so far, but the boy is the actual patient.

“Shake the doctor’s hand, Dean,” Mrs. Smith nearly interrupts Sam’s introduction in an effort to wedge herself back into the conversation. Sam suspects he'd drop significantly in Mrs. Smith's estimation if she found out he has a PhD in clinical social work.  

“Now,” Sam gestures to the two patient chairs and pulls his own from behind the desk.  “What seems to be the trouble?”  He doesn’t work with many young people—Dean’s less than a dozen years younger than Sam himself—but when he does, he tries to strike an egalitarian, back-to-school-night vibe.

Mrs. Smith isn’t having it.  She seems to crave exactly the sort of drama Sam is trying to avoid. 

“I want you to speak to my son about his filthy habits,” Mrs. Winchester announces dramatically.  “You’ve got to do something about it, before his father turns up and tries to beat it out of him.”

Sam blinks.  He looks quickly over at Dean and the boy is blushing so furiously that the freckles dusting his cheekbones stand out like watermelon seeds against his pink skin. 

“The _filthy_ things he’s done.  With _that boy_!” Mrs. Winchester repeats, gearing up for more outrage.  Dean looks like he wants to melt into the floor and Sam feels a sudden bone-deep sympathy.  He remembers how keenly he had wanted to fit in when he was Dean’s age, how hard it had been with a family that always seemed proud of standing outside the norm.

“Mrs. Smith.  _Mrs. Smith!_ ”  Sam has to repeat himself to get the woman to stop—she's launched into something about _Gomorrah_ and _the wages of sin_.  “Clearly this is upsetting to you, Mrs. Smith.  Why don’t I speak with Dean alone and you can get another sip of water?  A moment to collect yourself,” he’s saying, even as he walks her to the door.

Mrs. Smith looks briefly panicked at the realization that she’s about to lose center stage. “Oh, doctor,” she says breathily, all but batting her eyelashes, “I don’t know if I can trust him al—”

“I insist,” Sam cuts her off.  “Really.”

And when he closes the flimsy door and finally turns to really look at Dean Smith, the pure gratitude illuminating the boy’s face nearly takes Sam’s breath away.

He’s beautiful.  Sam hadn’t really noticed before—he’d been so distracted by the mother that he’d only had a vague impression of freckles and blush.  But now he can properly see the delicate curl of Dean’s eyelashes and the pretty bow of his mouth.  His hair is light brown, grown out a little from a crew-cut, and it probably goes even lighter in the summer, when the California sun makes him tan…

“Thanks,” Dean says, simply, and Sam snaps back into himself.  He is not here to ogle.

“My pleasure,” Sam says, and it comes out sounding more formal than it should.  There is a moment of silence—Sam wants to let it last, to forget about families, about paperwork. To sit here, quietly, with this beautiful boy.  But he knows that Cas’s attention won’t be enough to keep Mrs. Smith occupied forever.

“Do you want to tell me what has your mother so upset?”

Dean flushes again, drops his eyes.  Shakes his head.

Sam lets the silence settle again.  He moves his chair back to his desk and starts quietly sifting through the papers there. Something tells him that Dean isn’t used to being the center of anyone’s attention.   Mild interest must burn like a spotlight. 

“Isn’t it all in your file anyway?” Dean says, finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Sam shrugs.  “I’d like to hear your side.”

When he glances up, Dean is staring at him, wide green eyes, plush lips actually parted in astonishment.  It’s like no one has ever said that to him before.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Sam checks his watch.  “We’ve still got fifteen minutes for this appointment, if you just want to sit.” 

He returns to shuffling papers—America’s mental health system might be broken, but you’d never know it from the amount of paperwork it generates, even at this low-rent, sliding-scale clinic. 

And then, just when Sam figures Dean will take him up on the offer of some quiet time, the boy says, “There’s this kid in my neighborhood…”

It spills out then: the number of times the family has moved, the awkwardness of always being the new kid, the embarrassing way his mother is always putting on airs.  And on top of it all: puberty.  Girls.  “I don’t…” Dean stammers, “I don’t know anything about girls.  Don’t have no sisters or anything, even.  But Ty, he’s in the apartment upstairs, and he’s got internet and his Mom works afternoons after school.”

Sam doesn't have to say anything.  Dean tells everything. Ty promising to show Dean how to kiss, to show Dean what girls liked.  Ty telling Dean how pretty his eyes were (“so I’d know what to say, ‘cause girls like that stuff.”). Ty letting Dean straddle his lap so they could both see the computer screen.  How Dean could feel Ty ‘getting, uh, b-bigger’ (a shy glance from under his lashes, to make sure Doctor Winchester understands what that means).  The funny squeak Ty made when Dean shifted—even now the memory makes Dean smile, then bite his lip, drop his eyes. 

It’s only when Dean finally glances down that Sam realizes he’s been staring.  He’s been watching a new kind of flush creep up Dean’s throat to stain his cheeks. 

“D’dja like it?” Sam asks. His voice comes out rough and he’s pretty sure that is not the question he should be asking.

Dean doesn’t hesitate.  “Yeah.  I got...” Dean’s eyes lose focus for a moment.  Sam would give a lot to know what he was going to say next: _hard? horny?_ But Dean changes tack.  “Uh, but I liked the girls on the computer, too.  And then one day…my brother was looking for me.  He came home from school early and got scared and it’s not his fault, he’s only little.  And we were, uh. In bed, me and Ty. And then my mom…” he trails off. “Well.  You heard.  They think I can just.  Just forget it, how I felt.” A spark of indignation, one that Sam recognizes from his own teenage years: outrage that adults can so quickly dismiss something as essential as _feeling._

“Just dunno what to do,” Dean concludes, miserably.  “Isn’t there any way to just _know_?”

He’s not asking rhetorically, Sam realizes.  Dean really believes there’s some sort of test that can give him definitive information about who he’s meant lust after. And he looks so sweetly needy, sitting there inside his big, unseasonal flannel shirt, like he hadn’t just detailed how he’d let another boy feel him up.  Sam suspects Dean already _does_ know—he just wants permission.

“Yes,” Sam hears himself say and, again, there’s that look of glowing gratefulness.  “There is, uh.  Something I could try. We could try.” Sam doesn’t really even know what he’s saying, just that he wants to see that expression again.  He wants to see Dean again, to tell the boy what he wants to hear: that everything will be okay, that life contains pleasure and people to share it with. 

“Now?!” Dean is so eager that Sam has to scramble for an answer.

“I want you to go home and think about it.  If you’re interested—if you really want to know—you can come to my office tomorrow.  Not this office,” Sam stammers.  His blazer is hanging on the back of his chair and his fingers tremble so much he has trouble fishing out a business card. He waits ‘til they are steady before jotting his office extension on the back.  He holds it out on the flat of his hand, the way you might offer oats to a skittish horse.  But Dean seems to have shed his shyness.  He doesn’t simply pick it up.  No, Dean _caresses_ the little rectangle out of Sam’s hand, making sure that the tips of his fingers brush every centimeter of Sam’s palm. 

And then, just as Sam is wondering if he possibly could have imagined that touch, Dean taps the edge of the card against his bottom lip, as seductive as any starlet down the road in Hollywood. 

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Uhm. My last appointment is at seven, so come after that.” Sam only hopes that will give him enough time to figure out what in the hell he is doing inviting a strange, sexually confused kid to his office after hours.  He clears his throat. “Oh, and Dean?”

Dean pauses at the door of the cubicle.  Surely Sam had imagined the bowlegged sway of his ass.“Yes?”

“Don’t tell your mother.”

***


	2. In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the porny part. Please review the tags and decide if this is really something you are comfortable reading.

Sam had lied.  Not just about there being a test to determine Dean’s sexuality, but about something much more minor:  his last appointment ends at a quarter to six.  By seven on a nice summer Friday, the private practice is as empty as a plush, well air-conditioned Sahara.  The psychiatrists, the psychologists, the four secretaries have all cleared out for the weekend. The cleaning crew will come in on Saturday, but for now, the place is abandoned.  In the quiet, luxurious hush of the office, Sam's plans for the evening seem almost unreal. He calls Jess, tells her he will be home late tonight.  He lies to her, too.  Something’s come up at the Counseling Project, he says.

“Are you sure, babe?”  Jess pouts. “I was hoping we could pick up where we left off yesterday…”  She thinks he ‘wastes’ time in San Mateo, time that could be better spent at the country club, or by the pool she insisted on putting in.  He’d found her lounging by that pool last night. After handing Dean his business card, Sam had rushed through his paperwork (“no further counseling appropriate at this time”, he’d written in Dean’s file), raced home, plucked the ever-present wine glass out of Jess’s hand, lifted her onto the outrageously expensive patio table she’d picked out, and gone down on her until she’d wailed his name.  The whole time, he’d thought about Dean’s shy smile when he talked about Ty’s cock. He and Jess had fucked in the kitchen (the feather-light feel of Dean’s fingers on Sam’s palm) before finally making it to the master bedroom, where she’d ridden him into the mattress with the sort of athleticism that spoke well of her expensive yoga gym (Dean glancing up from below those impossible eyelashes).   This morning, Sam had woken to Jess’s mouth on his cock, but he’d kept his eyes closed, imagined it was someone else’s.

Now, sitting alone in the empty waiting room at the job that had promised to be everything he’d wanted when he was Dean’s age—helping people!  and being handsomely paid to do it! never having to set foot in another trailer park!—Sam wonders if he’s been foolish. He could leave right now, drive right  home to his lovely wife in his lovely home in his lovely gated community by the Pacific. But he doesn’t. 

Sam has turned the air conditioning in his office almost as high as it will go.  He fidgets around the chilly waiting room.  Unlike the Counseling Project, this place is too classy to have outdated magazines.  Finally, the telephone rings.  It’s the one on Sophia’s desk (the secretary Sam has thought of as ‘his’ ever since their dalliance in the supply closet).

“It’s me,” Dean says, like Sam should just know who is calling.

But then, Sam _does_ know who is calling. And he’s only a little surprised that Dean actually came.  Something made him doubt Dean ever backed down from a challenge.

“Come on up,”  Sam says, and buzzes him in from the lobby. 

Sam sees Dean’s eyes widen when he enters the waiting room. This practice caters to the sort of people who appear above the title cards on movies; its name sounds like a high-end law firm; it bills at minimum $400 for a 50-minute-hour.  Most of the clientele live in LA or Silicon Valley; some fly down by private jet for their 50 minutes.  Overall, the practice has done very well by being just a little inconvenient, playing hard to get. No expense has been spared.  That’s one reason Sam had wanted to meet Dean here: he suspects that Dean is not impressed by material things, but that he’s probably been raised to submit to authority.  It is hard to set yourself up as an authority figure at the San Mateo Counseling Project.  Also, Sam had wanted to give Dean a night to think it over.   He’d cum all over Jess’s back last night thinking about the way Dean’s hand had lay in his for a moment before picking up the business card.  Kid knew what he was getting into.  But he hadn’t been absolutely sure until the phone had rung. 

“This way,”  Sam gestures toward his office.

Sam opens his office door, sees Dean’s gaze alight immediately on the sofa.  It’s a lavish, high-backed Empire-style chaise longue, so absurdly comfortable that Sam rarely lets patients sit in it, lest they fall asleep.  He keeps it mostly for set-dressing: the Hollywood crowd expect every shrink’s office to have a couch.  The leather upholstery is a deep, chocolate brown that is going to look astonishing with Dean’s coloring.  Yes—Sam had wanted to give Dean a chance to consider what this offer meant, and he’d wanted a place that was calm and quiet and _his_.  He’d wanted a space private enough that Castiel wasn’t going to come knocking on the door with yet one more file.  But if he’s being honest, Sam had mostly invited Dean here because he wanted to get him on that sofa. 

And now he’s here, and looking just a little bit apprehensive. 

“Have a seat.  Let me explain what we’re going to do.”

A moment of hesitation, thin as thread, but critical:  Dean seems the type to do things whole-heartedly or not at all. 

“If you want to.”

It’s that nod to Dean’s own autonomy that helps him make up his mind:  foolish, but his own decision. When Dean plunks down onto the sofa, slovenly-graceful as only a teenager can be, Sam knows he’s not getting up.

“Not gonna hypnotize me, are ya, doc?” Dean gives a sly smile that makes Sam doubt he ever really had trouble getting girls.

“We’re just going to talk, for a bit.  You can close your eyes, though, if you want.  Maybe take off that flannel.”

Dean unbuttons about half of his flannel, revealing the threadbare blue t-shirt underneath, pale from too many washings.  His mother would probably have been shocked to know he'd left the house dressed like that.  Sam feels like he's meeting the real Dean Smith for the first time.  Dean kicks back on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh—but, Sam notices, he’s toed off his heavy boots.  Independence only goes so far: Sam would bet money that Mama Smith tans the ass of anyone who puts shoes on furniture in her house.

“There, now, close your eyes.” Sam draws over the ottoman that usually holds his notepads next to the chair he uses when counseling his real, paying patients.  Given the high back of the chaise, he is almost eye to eye with Dean.  Dean’s right hand, resting by his hip, twitches enough to brush Sam’s knee.  He looks at Sam steadily for a long moment and then, perfectly obedient, he closes his eyes.

“Good,” Sam says warmly, letting his knee jostle Dean’s fingers for a split-second.

“Now, I want you to tell me what you liked about the movies you used to watch with Ty.  What about them appealed to you?”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles.  “I thought we were gonna do a test?”

“Oh, we will,” Sam promises.  “But I want a little more information first.”

“I liked.  Uhm, I guess I liked how they just couldn’t stop.  I mean, how it would get like they just couldn’t hold back.  The girls, or, or the women, I mean.  And the guys, but mostly we watched…  I mean, I know some of them were actors,” he deprecates like a true, jaded Californian.  “I mean, some of them were just pretending.  But maybe some of them weren’t?”

“Good,” Sam says again, and this time he lets his hand rest on Dean’s wrist.  Reward for a job well done.  He feels Dean draw his hand into a fist and then relax.

“Did you ever feel like that with, uhm, Ty?”

Dean’s eyes dart under his eyelids.

“It’s okay if you did.  Sexuality is a spectrum,” Sam shifts into his usual soothing patter, the one he reserves for starlets who are having doubts and leading men who aren’t sure how much they want to risk.  That is not what he went to Stanford for, not why he slogged through grad school.  But it pays the bills, and he can always drive down to San Mateo to calm his conscience.  And, looking down at Dean, he can hardly complain.

Somewhere between assuring Dean that _you can like many people many ways_ and launching into _the importance of good, giving, game_ , Sam starts to lightly brush his hand along Dean’s forearm.  By the time he works his way up to how Dean can have _a rich, fulfilling life wherever he falls on the spectrum_ , he’s got one hand spread flat on Dean’s chest, rising and falling as the boy breathes.

“I did,”  Dean mutters.  “With Ty.  He would show me, uhm, how to move so he would feel good.”

“Mmmhmm?” Sam fiddles with a button, inches down to undo another.  The flannel is so worn, he can work with just one hand.   Sam's always liked flannel; never has any excuse to wear it anymore. He brings the other hand up to stroke Dean’s arm. He can’t quite tell, but he suspects that, under the flannel and denim, Dean's dick is starting to get hard.

“I felt good, too,” Dean says, and Sam realizes his eyes have opened.  He’s looking at Sam somberly, older than his age.  “I felt good, when Ty kissed me.”

“That’s important,” replies Sam, his own vice low and gravelly.  “It’s important to be with someone who makes you feel good.”

“Yeah?” Dean shifts almost imperceptibly.  _Definitely_ getting hard.

“Yeah.  Whether that person is a woman or a man.”  Sam pauses. “Will you undo the rest of your buttons for me?” 

Dean obeys  languorously, as though he really were acting under hypnosis.  When the flannel is open all the way, he lets his hands drop back to his sides.  Under the old t-shirt, his nipples have peaked in the chill of the air conditioning. 

“Very good,”  Sam encourages, noticing that Dean flushes a little at the praise.  He tries not to keep his eyes on Dea's face, not pay undue attention to the bulge now evident in the kid’s jeans. 

“I’m going to touch you now.  Touch your chest.  Is that ok?” 

Dean nods silently.  Sam puts his hand on Dean’s belly, feels the ridges of muscle there as Dean’s abs tighten at the half-expected touch.

“This area can be an erogenous zone for men and women,”  Sam explains, bland as a high school biology teacher.  “More for women, though.” He moves his palm in smooth wide circles, slowly up to Dean’s collarbones, then down to his belt.  By the third pass, he can feel Dean’s breathing slow and relax. 

“Erogenous?” Dean says at last, stumbling slightly over the pronunciation.

“Means it should make you feel good.”  Two more circles.  “Like with Ty.  Does it?  Does it make you feel good, Dean?”

It takes the boy a second to realize he’s been asked a question. He looks up at Sam with sleepy, trusting eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“If it makes you feel _really_ good, then that’s an indication that you might be what we call ‘bi-sexual.’  Do you know what that is, Dean?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean repeats.  And then, his hands flicker at his sides, “Can I—uh, is it okay if…?”

“Of course.  Whatever makes you comfortable,” Sam assures him, like he hasn’t been sneaking corner-of-the-eye glances as Dean thickened under his jeans. 

The boy fumbles with his belt, fingers urgent and clumsy, until Sam reaches in to help.  Dean gasps, and Sam can’t tell if it’s regret at losing the warm hand on his chest, or relief when the belt opens.  His cock pushes up with enough force that Sam can make it out clearly against the denim.  A good size for his age, a handful that Sam wants to squeeze.  But he doesn’t.

“Better?”

Dean nods and it may just be Sam’s imagination, but he thinks the kid thrusts his chest out a little, inviting Sam’s hand back.  Certainly he settles himself against the high back of the chaise when Sam’s hand does settle on his t-shirted stomach.  He droops like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch, limp except for that rampant dick that will soon start to edge over the waistband of his jeans.

Without the belt, Dean’s pants sag, revealing a hint of soft cotton boxers.  The jeans are clearly second-hand, bought so he can grow into them.  This time, when Sam slides his hand between Dean’s side and the upholstery, his thumb tucks right under the t-shirt, along the sliver of bare belly.  Dean shivers, the tremor running along his whole body. 

Sam leans in to put the word right in Dean’s ear. “Cold?”

“Nnn,”  Dean shakes his head. 

“Good.  Now, did Ty ever touch you here?”  Sam folds Dean’s t-shirt back, revealing two inches of stomach: trim, flat, a sparse trail of pale brown hair starting low.  His mouth floods with spit and he has a sudden, almost unquenchable desire to put his tongue into the whorl of Dean’s belly button. 

“Not really.”

“Here?”  Sam lets his hand slip up under the shirt, to the faintly defined curve of Dean’s pectorals.

“Uhm, we mostly.  My mouth…”  Dean’s eyes have drifted shut again and he seems dis-inclined to form full sentences.

Sam is glad Dean can’t see his disapproving frown.  Not that he can’t see the appeal of Dean’s mouth—particularly now, the way Dean is chewing on his ripe bottom lip—but he wishes Dean’s first experiences had been with a more considerate lover.  Not some neighborhood kid looking for a willing body.  Well.  Sam will make it up to him. 

He’s been teasing so far, giving Dean time to reject the efforts if he’s going to.  But now Sam puts both hands on Dean, runs his palms over the corrugations of his ribs, cups his pecs with two broad palms.

“Oh!” Dean’s eyes pop open, startled at the sudden warmth.  His nipples feel as hard as pebbles under Sam’s hand. Sam digs his fingertips into the muscle.  Under the layers of oversized shirts, it had been hard to tell, but Dean’s got some meat there, despite his lanky teenaged frame.

Sam slides his hands down to settle at Dean’s waist.  He watches Dean look down at his own nipples, poking up plainly through the cotton of his t-shirt.

“Does that mean I’m…?”

Sam puts on his most studious expression.  “Not sure.  We’ll need to try a few more things.”

“Yeah,” Dean sounds breathless, “okay.”

Sam folds the t-shirt up, inch by inch, and Dean huffs a laugh when Sam tucks one edge under his armpit.

“Ticklish?”

 _That_ is what finally makes Dean blush, and Sam can’t resist:  he brushes a kiss on Dean’s warm cheek, the way he’s wanted to since he first showed up at the Counseling Project.

Dean’s chest is smooth and still hairless, but better developed than Sam would have expected.  What kind of heavy lifting is a kid this age doing to develop those kind of upper-body muscles? Sam puts the thought firmly out of his mind. 

Propped up as he is, back arched by the curve of the chaise longue, Dean almost looks like he has shallow little breasts, an illusion enhanced by nipples, so firm and pink that Sam feels he could pluck them like raspberries.

When he tries, Dean's hips lift off the chaise.  The gasp he makes fades into a moan when Sam twists a little.  Sam thumbs the other nipple gently, a confusion of sensations that has Dean nearly levitating off the couch. 

“So sensitive,” Sam murmurs. “No, no.  That’s _good,”_ he says when he sees the slightly doubtful look on Dean’s face.  To prove it, he switches his attentions: pinching the left tit and fondling the right.  With Dean’s uncoordinated assistance, he peels off the layered shirts, then dives back in to touch and tease. Finally, when Dean’s whimpers start to sound a little pained, Sam leans back to observe his handiwork.

He was right: Dean does look gorgeous on this couch.  The deep brown leather makes his early-summer tan glow, and the tan, in turn, draws the eye to his reddened nipples.   He looks up at Sam, dazed, breathing shallowly.  Dean’s squirming has worked his jeans half down his ass and his he’s blurted enough pre-cum to make a nearly-transparent spot on his boxers.  When Sam traces the wide, flat aureole of his left nipple, Dean’s cock jumps visibly. 

“Can I try something?”  Sam asks.

Dean’s response is a moan, but from the way he leans into Sam’s hand, it is an affirmative moan. 

Sam walks to his desk, aware of his own cock grown heavy.  In the top drawer, he’s placed two small binder clips on the cloisonné tray Jess purchased when she took on the project of decorating his office.  The clips are the anonymous black metal with little silver wings; they come in boxes of 25 from some random office supply company.  Sophia the secretary uses them to hold billing slips together for invoices.  If Sam had more time to plan, he would have gotten something more suitable, or at least colored ones from the supply closet.  He thinks Dean would look particularly lovely in green.

Dean’s got his right hand shoved into his boxers when Sam returns.  His left is idly circling his nipple, not quite daring to touch.  Dean’s hips move with a liquid grace; the flexing of his right arm makes his pecs tighten and jump.  He looks at Sam, daring him to intervene.  As though Sam would do any such thing. 

Instead, Sam kneels next to the low couch and holds up the little clips, linked together.  He jingles the once, then leans in close enough to feel Dean’s warm, ragged breathing speed up.  He licks his thumb and draws a spit-wet ‘x’ on the nub of Dean’s right nipple.  “If this were mine,” Sam breathes, “I’d have it pierced.”

Dean _shouts_ when he cums, a rough, wordless sound that is as sudden and surprising as the orgasm that slams into him.  Sam can see Dean’s eyes practically roll back into his head, can feel the slender body writhe like it’s been electrified. Dean’s free hand snags in Sam’s shirt, pulling him close, spasming and shaking.  Sam's face is crushed into the side of Dean’s neck, right where it joins his shoulder, where he can feel the hot pulsing blood and hear the way his breathing finally slows to a winded panting. 

Sam pulls back, smoothing one hand down Dean’s front, hearing him whine when the palm passes over his chest.

“ _Fuck_!” Dean manages, his eyelids fluttering and finally opening. It takes him a moment to summon his usual cocky smile.  “Would you call that _really good_?”

Dean opens when Sam kisses him, lets Sam plunder his mouth: all lips and tongue, hot and wet.  He doesn’t stop until he hears the jingle-click of the binder clips falling from the edge of the chaise to the hardwood floor of the office.  He blinks up at Sam, bashful again.

“Will it hurt?”

Sam is done with lying.  “A little.  But you’ll like it.”

Dean doesn’t disagree.  “Can I, uh…?”

“Anything, sweetheart.”

“Can I sit in your lap?”

That precious flush again, like he’s ashamed to be asking for something he can’t have. 

“Please,” replies Sam.

Dean is so dizzy and strung out from the intensity of his orgasm that he needs Sam’s help untangling himself from his clothing.  Cumming seems to have burnt away all his inhibitions, though: he lets Sam tug off his jeans, steps out of his damp boxers, straddles Sam completely nude.  He doesn’t seem to care that Sam is still fully dressed, though he gasps, tender, when his softened cock brushes Sam’s shirtfront.  Nestled into the corner of the chaise, still warm from Dean’s body heat, Sam curls an arm around his hips and strokes his back until he settles.

When Sam puts his mouth on Dean’s hot, swollen left nipple, he feels the boy’s ribs expand and contract around a deep sigh. 

“Oh, oh! _Fuck_!”  Dean curses when Sam starts to suckle. 

Just a hint of teeth and Dean’s bare, gangly legs come up to circle Sam’s waist.

Sam pulls off when he starts to feel Dean’s cock stir.  He holds up one binder clip, “Ready?”

“Yeah, I wa—”

Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to finish; he just pinches the clip open and closes it on the spit-slick tip of Dean’s tit.

Dean’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly.  His body bucks in Sam's arms and then goes limp, head lolling on Sam’s shoulder, so suddenly that Sam wonders if the kid has passed out.  He kisses the boy’s sweaty temple, the nearest part he can reach. Dean drunkenly lifts his head, opens his eyes, pupils blown wide.

“Do t’other one,” he slurs. 

Sam suckles the other nipple until he feels Dean’s hips start to rock with the rhythm of his mouth.    

“This how you used to, with Ty?” he asks.  The last binder clip is resting on the floor, right by an air conditioning grate.  It will be icy when Sam picks it up, and he wants to leave it ‘til the last possible moment.

“Nnn…Used to face t’other way,”  Dean mumbles.  “See computer better.  Like this better.  Like how big you feel,” he rolls his hips, smirks when Sam pushes up. 

“I think our test has been…?”  Sam starts.

“A success?” Dean gives him that under-the-lashes glance; how could Sam have mistaken ‘coy’ for ‘shy’? 

Dean’s young enough that his little cock is blood-thick again by the time Sam puts the second binder clip on his little nipple.  The cold makes Dean yelp.  His red nubs look obscene against the dark metal and Dean touches one, gently, wonderingly. 

“How’s it feel?” Sam’s hips are moving of their own accord now, grinding up against Dean’s weight, making the clips bounce.  The silver catches the last long rays of the evening, slanting through the window, staining Dean’s skin pink and orange.  “Think you can cum again?”

It takes Dean a solid thirty seconds to answer.

“No.  But I want your mouth,” Dean whispers at last, sounding strung-out, “I want your mouth on me.”

And Dean is _always_ going to get what he wants, as long as Sam can give it to him.  So Sam holds his hips steady and gently, so gently, takes one sore tit—nipple, clip, and all—into the warmth of his mouth. Then he soothes the other.  He’s got one arm supporting Dean’s increasingly lax body, which leaves a free hand to pull out his own rigid cock and align it with Dean’s. 

Dean is clinging to Sam, one hand fisted at the back of Sam’s shirt, but Sam guides the other hand down to stroke their joined dicks.  It’s only the awkwardness of the angle that keeps him from cumming, that enables him to wait until the greedy shoving of Dean’s hips indicate that he’s on the verge. 

“Too much,” Dean gasps.  “Gotta stop…”

No way in hell is Sam going to stop.  He's bigger than Dean, stronger, and he has more leverage.  He can pin Dean's slim hips with one arm, hold him down, make him ride the heavy weight of Sam's own cock. Sam's got Dean's right tit in his mouth, suckling hard, and he flicks the clip on the other.  _Like they just couldn't hold back_ , is how Dean had described the online videos that had aroused him so much.  Fuck: the kid has no idea.

This time, Dean's eyes _do_ roll back into his head.  There's a split-second where Sam is holding his gaze, a half a breath after he's plucked the clips off Dean's nipples—one with his fingers, one with his mouth—but before the prickly-hot sensation of blood flowing back to the sensitive tissues. And then Dean is cumming, harder than ever before, sobbing with sensation, and the twisting of his slick young body is pulling Sam into orgasm behind him. 

Sam loses time: it is almost full dark before he can be bothered to shift himself out from under Dean's hot, heavy body. Dean clings for a second, then subsides, letting Sam lay him back out on the sofa, press a kiss to the smooth skin of his chest, between his bruised nipples, now puffy as a girl's. Dean runs his fingers through Sam's sweaty hair and Sam wants to stay like this forever.  Kneeling on the floor of his too-cold office, head pillowed on Dean's chest. But they need water, clean clothes.  He needs to get the boy home, or at least find him a decent hotel.   

Sam is at the door of his office when he hears the slip of damp skin against leather.

“Doctor?” Dean props himself on one elbow, debauched as any odalisque.  “I think I'm going to need to schedule another appointment.”

 


End file.
